


Like Falling Asleep

by haemoheretic



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Fluff, teenage romance shenanigans, teenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 15:56:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haemoheretic/pseuds/haemoheretic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, then all at once.” - The Fault in Our Stars, John Green.</p>
<p>Written for the anonymous prompt "The first time Rose realises she has feelings for Kanaya", at meteoricgirlfriends.tumblr.com.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Falling Asleep

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and your fairy god troll is far too worried about this.

 

That’s what you’re telling yourself, anyway. Kanaya keeps rambling about grimdarkness and the importance of dreamselves and other such nonsense, which is kind of sweet, but frustrating. She has been an invaluable resource, and, yes, pleasant to talk to, but this is something you have to do. Namely, there is a box of white text on your screen, and a cueball in your hand, and mesa that needs scratching.

 

You take one last look at your last pesterlog, all purple and green. Such a pleasant combination. When this is done perhaps you will ask Kanaya to make you an outfit in those shades.

 

Then you close it, and pester your informant.

 

—-

 

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and this meteor is darker than you expected.

 

From Kanaya’s anecdotes of her life, you’d assumed all trolls were diurnal. Once you’ve farewelled Aradia and Sollux and actually started living on the meteor, though, it becomes clear she was a special case. Consequently there isn’t much light in the hallways of the meteor, but for the luminescent skin of a vampiric troll gliding silently through them. This somewhat spoils her attempt to sneak up on you, but you pretend to be surprised anyway.

 

“I didn’t realise silent travel was a symptom of vampirism,” you say, once Kanaya has racked up a few notches on her horseshitometer. The two of you lean on opposite sides of the wall, day-glo orange and glowing white.

 

“Neither did I, but I am rather enjoying it.” The corner of her lips curves up. The colours swirl together, black and green and rich purple that she has yet to wipe off. As much as you want to settle in, to begin the next three years of your life with your new alien friends and your ectobrother, there is something that isn’t paint smeared on the walls and bodies that have yet to be cleared and you are suddenly uncomfortably aware that this girl, who you have been exchanging witty banter with and growing fond of, died only hours ago. Then again, so did you.

 

Kanaya’s tongue flicks out, revealing her sharp fangs. She clears the last of blood from her lips, then looks away from you. Catching your eye, she hesitates, embarrassment crossing her face. “What does it taste like?” you ask. This was the wrong question, evidently; she winces and twists her hands in the fabric of her skirt. Silence settles over you. Conversations are different when you can see her sharp features twisted into nervousness. You can’t help but look away.

 

The draw of breath into defunct lungs startles you into glancing up again. “From Terezi’s accounts, I had been expecting grape juice,” she says, fumbling over the words as though they have changed shape. “Alas, it is something more akin to some kind of cured meat. Salty, but not thoroughly unpleasant.” She pauses, uncertain. “Terezi’s was sweeter. Which would make sense, considering she is not a seadweller; if more of our species were alive I would be interested in documenting how one’s position on the hemospectrum affects the taste of blood, but as it stands there isn’t enough left to -“

 

“Kanaya,” you interrupt. She blinks at you, jaw hanging slightly ajar, and those teeth certainly are sharp, aren’t they? “You’re rambling.”

 

“Ah. Forgive me,” she says, and that’s interesting, her cheeks flush green. All your suppositions regarding vampires are being challenged barely an hour into meeting one, and the prospect of spending the next three years with her is becoming more pleasant by the second.

 

“Come on then,” you say, “as the only two sane individuals left on this meteor, we really should get to organising. I doubt we’ll be seeing much of Dave and Terezi for quite some time.” She giggles at that, a melodic chirping sound, and follows as you head for where you last saw the others.

 

—-

 

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you are infinitely glad you did not actually grow up with your brother.

 

The thing is, Dave is okay, even pleasant in small and singular doses. It’s when he’s paired with someone who amplifies his less tolerable traits - say, a troll whose mental faculties are seriously in question - that he becomes insufferable.

 

“So, have you and Kanaya started mackin’ on each other yet?” he asks in his usual toneless drawl. You look at up him from your position at the lab bench, hoping your eyebrows will convey your distaste without having to waste your breath. Unfortunately, the Strider pokerface strikes again.

 

“Kanaya is my friend,” you say pointedly, focusing on the pieces of paper in front of you. As promised, you’re doing everything in your power to aid Kanaya’s revival of her species, but you’re making little progress thus far. “Not all friends have to be in a romantic, sorry, concupiscent relationship.”

 

“Come on, Rose.” Terezi’s voice is uniquely grating, particularly when she’s got that smug tone. “Even I can see that girl is all kinds of scarlet for you.”

 

“Okay, this is not the time for blind jokes,” you say, glaring at the pair of them. As if they can talk, draped all over each other as they are. If there are any more sets of sloppy interspecies makeouts on this meteor, Karkat will probably explode. Unfortunately, Terezi has a point: you’re not oblivious to Kanaya’s flirting, adorable and awkward as it is, though you’ve done your best to ignore it. You’re also aware that both of you have species to save, and while you’re not entirely sure how a relationship with John of all people will work, you have a duty to what remains of humankind.

 

“Poor Kanaya,” Terezi says with an affected sigh, “she’s going to be heartbroken.” Dave hums in agreement and volunteers to draw a comic depicting the exact moment Kanaya’s heart rends in two.

 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but kindly go back to fawning over each other. I’m getting a headache.” There’s a chorus of snorting and chirruping from their direction, but then it fades to blissful silence. Except it doesn’t, because there are thoughts crowding your head that you’d rather not dwell on, like how you don’t really know how to feel about this confirmation of what you’d been ignoring in favour of remembering your duty to humankind. The idea of sustaining any kind of relationship had been eradicated along with the earth. You would marry John, reproduce, repopulate your new universe.

 

Right?

 

—-

 

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you may have slightly underestimated Kanaya Maryam.

 

“Pass me the black lace,” she says through a mouthful of pins. You know, of course, that Kanaya can hold her own both in conversation and in strife, but nothing quite prepared you for the side of her that appears when there’s decorating to be done. In the space of about an hour she’s alchemised a warehouse’s worth of fabric of every type, a small mountain of wool (“we could alchemise it pre-knit, but we do still have a sweep to go,”) and an army of sewing machines, and has set you to making woollen flowers while she sews banners and drapes. Unfortunately, you haven’t made much progress; the deliberate, delicate movements of Kanaya’s fingers, the set of her jaw as she manipulates the fabrics, has you distracted. You’ve never seen someone wield colour like this.

 

“Rose?” It takes you a moment to realise she’s staring at you, one eyebrow quirked. “Would you kindly pass me the black lace?” Hurriedly setting your needles aside, you grab a strip of the elegant lace and carry it to where Kanaya is sitting at one of her sewing machines, cotton tangled round her legs like an affectionate cat. She grins at you as you hand it over, and you realise what it is about her today that has you so entranced. For most of your friendship, you’ve known Kanaya as a woman of necessity: she acts as she believes she must. This, though, this isn’t grim inevitability: this is passion and colour and complete confidence in every move.

 

“How are the flowers going?” Kanaya asks, tilting her head to look at your abandoned knitting. “Are you not enjoying it?” And, oh, her brow creases and her lips (painted jade green today) part, but before she can apologise you interrupt.

 

“I have merely been … distracted.” You allow your gaze to linger on her hands for a moment too long. Though you know your poker face isn’t as faultless as Dave’s, you hope it will suffice to cover the twist of embarrassment you feel at what just sounded dangerously like a confession. You’re not even sure what you’re confessing to.

 

“Rose,” Kanaya starts, but you shake your head and mumble something about working harder. You’re thankful for your godhood as you pull it over your head, hiding the flush that creeps onto your cheeks.

 

The click of needles and the whir of machinery fill the air.

 

—-

 

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and today you’re on Karkat duty.

 

“I can’t believe Terezi!” he snaps, kicking out from the bench again. You count the steps as he paces; for someone so volatile, he’s remarkably predictable. “I’ve hardly seen her for the last four perigrees! Even fucking Kanaya is avoiding me! Tell me, Lalonde, what the fuck is it that I’ve done to offend these antisocial fucknuts?”

 

“Couldn’t possibly be your vocabulary,” you murmur, although you suspect that no-one’s actually offended by Karkat at this point. He makes a point, though: Terezi and Dave are reinventing Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff in preparation for the new universe, the juggalo is playing house with his corpses, and Kanaya - well, you’re not sure what’s happened to Kanaya. You haven’t seen much of her since you completed your side of the decoration efforts. The point is, the current state of the meteor doesn’t exactly lend itself to socialisation, aside from Karkat, who’s less company and more a generator of raging white noise. Having completed his fourth-and-a-third circle of the lab bench, Karkat slumps back into his chair, propping his head up on his hand.

 

“I just don’t know what she sees in that douchebag,” he says finally. “I mean, I’m a douchebag too, but at least I’m not … forget it.” The disgust with which he spits out the words fascinates you. He and Dave aren’t really so different. “I mean, I want her to be happy. I just -“

 

“Wish she could be happy with you?”

 

He looks up at you, his expression guarded in a way you’ve never seen from him before. “Who says I’m flushed for her?” he demands, then pauses, apparently realising the ridiculousness of his question. “I mean - fuck it. She doesn’t want me, I get that, I just - hey, wait, why the fuck am I telling you this?”

 

“No, please, continue,” you say, resting your chin on the palm of one hand. “Perhaps I should alchemise a couch for you to lay on. Do trolls have an analogue to therapy? I’m aware of the therapeutic duties of a moirail” - he winces and you regret the choice of words, but the point stands - “but it may do you some good to express your feelings in a manner that does not involve shouting at everyone in the general vicinity -“

 

“Hey. Lalonde.” Uneasiness settles in the pit of your stomach as Karkat squints at you. “What’s up with you and Kanaya, anyway?”

 

“I suggest you cease changing the subject if you hope to make any progress,” you say. It comes out curter than you intended, but Karkat is unfazed. He leans forward on his chair and scrutinises you.

 

“Listen, you are talking to the expert on quadrants here. I know a flushcrush when I see one.” You should be pleased that his voice is returning to its usual volume - he’s been unsettlingly quiet of late - but you’re too busy worrying about where this is heading. “I know Kanaya had one on you … don’t tell me you rejected her, Lalonde.” The way Karkat bares his relatively tiny fangs is kind of cute, or it would be if his entire body wasn’t tensed in classic strife-or-abscond style.

 

You choose strife.

 

“If Kanaya ever had such feelings for me, she has clearly moved on,” you say, keeping your tone clipped and even. “She’s hardly spoken to me for the past week. And no, I did not reject her. Considering the lack of evidence that there was anything to reject, I find that nigh on impossible, don’t you?”

 

“She’s probably sulking because you, in all your fucking wisdom, did some dumb human thing to break her bloodpusher!” Karkat’s rant quickly devolves into insults towards what is left of humanity, which fades into white noise as you considering the frankly frightening notion that Karkat may have made a logical point. Though Kanaya has told you much about troll culture, there are many nuances you have yet to grasp. You hurriedly scribble a note to Karkat - he’s too incensed to hear anything you say - and head off to the room you and Kanaya had claimed for her sewing.

 

Half-finished dresses and sagging drapes are all that greet you. Every noise you make is muffled by the fabric as you edge into the room, ears pricked for the rustle of silk or the roar of a chainsaw. All you find is silence.

 

Perfect.

 

—-

 

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you are incredibly, painfully nervous.

 

You know Kanaya is in her room. Terezi had told you as much, after performing a painfully drawn-out investigation of the meteor. All that’s left to do is knock, and yet your hands remain clenched by your sides as you attempt to steady your breathing. This demands complete perfection.

 

Without warning the door swings open, and you stagger backwards slightly at the shock of it. Kanaya’s lips (black, without their usual layer of lipstick) part with shock as you right yourself, fidgeting with the peace offer in your hand. “Listen, I just - I’m sorry if I offended you, I’m not grasping the xenocultural sensitivity issues as thoroughly as I wanted, and I - fuck,” you sigh, “excuse my language, but I can’t lose you, Kanaya. Who else is going to light up the corridors for me?” Your voice cracks and you stare at the ground, at the stupid toy you made to try to atone for whatever you’d done, and this isn’t going to plan but when does anything ever?

 

“Rose.” Kanaya’s voice snaps you out of your spiral of despair. You watch as her fangs graze her lower lip, a trail of jade blood beading along the edge. “You did not offend me. I just realised that I … I cannot make the same mistakes I have in the past.” She takes a deep breath, leaning against the doorframe. “I imagine you have noticed my, um, redder feelings for you …”

 

“I wasn’t certain,” you say quietly. “I’m afraid I don’t have much experience in this area.”

 

“Well, I do,” Kanaya says, jaw clenching. “I had - a moirail, for whom I waxed scarlet. I, in my youthful naivety, I thought that if I was in at least one quadrant with her, I’d have a chance in another. You can imagine how that ended. And I - I can’t do that to you, Rose.” She looks up at you, so helpless for one so powerful. “Admittedly I should have warned you before I cut communications, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. I’m certain if you give me time these feelings will fade and we can remain as friends.”

 

All your carefully cultivated plans, your scripts for this conversation, crumble as she stares at you, her plea hanging in the air. You have had quite enough of planning.

 

Kanaya’s fangs are sharp against your lips, at least until she opens her mouth and lets them slide under her lips. She kisses like you’re spun glass, barely daring to move against you, and she is the first to pull back.

 

“Are you sure?” she asks. At this distance, you can see the faint tint of green pooling into her irises.

 

“Does it matter?” you ask, and kiss her again.

 

—-

 

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and today you are teaching your alien girlfriend how to knit.

 

“Through the front, wrap it around - there, that’s it,” you say, watching the tips of the needles. Kanaya is hunched over, frowning at her handiwork. Your own hands are moving with a practised rhythm, effortless as breathing. You get so absorbed in the motion that it takes you a few minutes to notice that she has stopped moving.

 

When you look up, eyebrows raised, she shrugs and sets her work aside. “Distracted,” she says by way of explanation, and settles back to watch you with a smile playing on her lips. Today they are painted purple and green, to match the knitted scarf wrapped around her neck.


End file.
